


Love

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [41]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff I guess, M/M, fluffy fluff fluff, non-declarations, nothing happens in this fic, things they don't say to each other, ummmm, what do I tag this thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:25:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3429359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the One Word Bottomjohn Prompt Series.</p><p>There are things Sherlock and John never say to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love

It's not something they say. It's not something they've ever been able to say. Not something either of them had thought to question or change. It's just…not a word they really use.

“Wake me up when you get in,” John will say instead, and Sherlock will sweep out the door with a dramatic flap of his coat pretending he didn't hear. But always, around two, or three, or four, John will wake up to the sound of a violin, straining against the silence with the words implicit behind them: _I'm home._

“Do you have your gun?” Sherlock will ask instead, and John will give him a look and say, “Why would I take my gun to the clinic?” But he'll put on his coat, pulling it momentarily tight around him in the guise of checking his pockets or brushing off a bit of lint, and Sherlock, sprawled in his chair with his fingers at his chin, will the see the outline of it, pressed in against his back, and he'll smile.

“I swear to God, Sherlock, I will bloody kill you if you ever do that again,” John will snarl instead, hunched over him in an alley, the bright chip of a bullet lodged in the wall just a little bit left of Sherlock's head, and they are both gasping and rolling their eyes like animals, the adrenaline just a little too much to cope with right now.

And Sherlock, instead of speaking, will grin, fire-bright and manic and grasp the hand searching frantically at his scalp.

“Yes,” John will say instead, after that first tenuous grapple in the dark, when their hands are still tingling from the first touch of the others skin.

And Sherlock will kiss him again instead, leaning in with the inevitable gravity of a rock slide, crushing things beneath him without a word.

And later: “Is this okay?” Sherlock will ask, and John will make a sound underneath him, eyes wide and straining to catch the glimpses of what he knows in that pale face above him. And he will see it, and he will feel the battering pressure of his heart against his ribcage, fighting at the base of his throat. And John will nod, and he will say, “Yeah. That's okay, Sherlock,” instead, and they will both understand.

They've never found a need for that word. They've never understood its use, the enforced comprehension of the incomprehensible, the cage around something unencompassing.

“Don't stay out too late,” Sherlock will say, and John will roll his eyes and answer, “Yes, mum.” And they know.


End file.
